Get Well
by Peridot Tears
Summary: A few simple words affects a younger Luke in a way that is...new...to him. Suddenly his cold doesn't seem so bothersome. Set in pre-series time, when Thalia, Annabeth, and Luke are still on the run. One-shot.


_**PT: I have, alas, caught a mild but annoying cold -sighs- (Suspect swine flu, you paranoid one, and you -die- :D -Shot-) This was written for the LJ community percylicious, its weekly challenge thing based off a prompt. This one is for paper bags :D I might add to this, depending on if the weekly challenge thing continues...**_

_Disclaimer: ...Um, no...am I?_

Luke hated the way he rasped it out, a confession of weakness. "I have a cold."

He could not tell whether he was groaning it or moaning it when he said it; but he could care less. His voice was soft, rough as always—and it rasped as he felt the lack of energy in his body. To speak was to force sounds from his throat, his mouth. The straining effort pshed him back; he collapsed against the wall.

The coolness of bricks against his back was oddly comforting, but he reveled in it.

Weakly, he forced his hand up to press against his brow.

Hot.

Letting the hand drop, he closed his eyes; inwardly he cursed. He already was a burden his mind's eye, to Thalia and Annabeth. They were being hunted, and now he had to collapse with the slowing fever.

Ignoring Thalia's quiet, urgent voice asking—no, _demanding—_Annabeth to _get water, _he let his wooziness drift into feverish oblivion:

He needed rest, and though he told himself, over and over, to not burden his companions with his pitiful needs—_weak, _he called himself with disgust—the numbness of sleep tempted.

Rest. Sleep.

_No._

But the approaching darkness coaxed sweetly, so sweetly...

Sleep.

Luke's resolve wavered, and the darkness grabbed him; then swept him away to float, to rest.

It was a luxury that drove away the sickly feel of fever.

He slept.

Bliss.

--

Eyes cracked open—and immediately widened upon instinct.

The world was fuzzy, but a new strength had resumed its predecessor's work, weaving life into Luke's limbs.

Within an instant Luke was fully-awake, gazing around the alley he had fallen asleep in.

Something did not feel right—the eerie silence, the emptiness and darkness—

_Annabeth._

_Thalia._

They were not there.

Luke shifted quickly in an effort to get up. His chest heaved as he struggled—

Something fell off his belly; he blinked.

A paper bag.

An ordinary brown paper bag.

He squinted closely at it, saw words that—no, he had dyslexia, how could...?

He recognized Annabeth's childish Greek writing—clumsy, big letters that were written with what looked like wax.

Luke shifted again and noticed the discarded stub of a candle next to a lighter. They sat innocently by him, wax and flame.

He looked back at the bag, lifting it with his hands. Something cold bulged in it.

He read in the sunlight sneaking past the blocking buildings:

"Thalia and I are getting water. We both need to steal the bottles from the store. The insect repellent will hide your smell until we come back.

"Get well soon.

"Annabeth."

Her name was written in English—something she remembered, for she had seen it a worthy amount of times in her life.

Stunned, Luke ran a finger over the last line.

_Get well soon._

An image appeared in Luke's mind, imagining Annabeth struggling to write the words with her stubborn stick of wax, ignoring the way she would brush her fingers against the heated liquid, burning herself.

_Get well soon._

They were written meaningfully.

_Get well soon._

He had never received those words, spoken or written.

And yet they were written there, in Greek, throbbing with its genuine feelings.

Everyone had gotten those words—_get well soon—_and here he, the deprived one; the demigod, held in his hands clumsy writing on a wrinkled replacement for paper (that must have been dug out of the trash).

The words—_get well soon—_rang true and real.

True.

Real.

A smile flitted across the boy's face.

He pulled out the can of pesticide, knowing its smell was sharp and cold.

The paper bag was folded, with attempted neatness, and stored in his pocket.

There it stayed.


End file.
